Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 428: The plan is to wait

The medical board met in a conference suite that looked like it belonged to a defense contractor - glass walls that could turn opaque at a touch, soundproofing built into the panels, a long table with embedded screens, and enough security outside the door to make it clear that in Saha, medical privacy was treated like classified intelligence.

Chris hated the vibe immediately.

He sat in a chair that had clearly been chosen to be "comfortable," but only made Chris more suspicious. Nero was strapped to his chest in a modern carrier - dark fabric, reinforced seams, and a small embroidered seal that screamed royal-approved and overpaid. Nero slept like he owned the world, cheek pressed into Chris’s shirt, one tiny hand curled like a question mark.

Dax sat beside him, close enough that their knees touched under the table, and anyone watching would understand that this wasn’t the state evaluating its consort.

This was a man protecting his mate and daring the world to call it unprofessional.

Across from them were the clinicians, a full board of them.

They looked like people who had been trained to keep rulers alive through disasters and then got bored and started solving problems everyone else called impossible.

At the center sat the senior physician - an older alpha with calm eyes and a voice that sounded like it had delivered too much bad news without ever losing poise. Beside him were specialists: an endocrinologist, an obstetric surgeon, a reproductive medicine lead, and a cardiometabolic consultant whose screen already held predictive graphs like they were weather maps.

And there was Nadia, slightly to the side, tablet in hand, posture straight, expression sharp.

She was the king’s senior nurse, which meant she managed the entire apparatus that kept Dax and Chris alive: schedules, protocols, medication logs, alarms, staffing, and post-op care. She was the one who woke people up, put them to bed, noticed tiny changes before the machines did, and said no with the authority of someone who had earned it the hard way.

Chris leaned back slightly and murmured, "This feels like I’m being put on trial."

Dax didn’t look away from the board. "They’re here to help."

Chris’s mouth twitched. "That’s what terrifies me."

The senior physician glanced at Chris with professional neutrality. "Your Majesty."

Chris smiled, sweet and dangerous. "Doctor."

Nadia’s eyes flicked up from her tablet, unimpressed.

A senior physician tapped a control, and the glass wall screen lit up with timelines, hormone markers, and sleep pattern graphs.

"We reviewed your pregnancy records," the physician said, voice measured, "including prolonged somnolence episodes, endocrine irregularities, and surgical delivery."

Chris squinted at the screen. "Somnolence."

"That means you slept," Chris translated loudly, as if the room might have missed it.

The reproductive specialist didn’t look up. "It means you slept in a pattern consistent with systemic shutdown."

Chris blinked. "My body powered off."

Nadia finally spoke, voice crisp. "Your body protected you."

Dax’s hand rested on the edge of Chris’s chair.

The senior physician continued. "Postpartum recovery was strong. No infection. No surgical complications."

Chris brightened immediately, vindicated. "See."

Nadia didn’t even glance at him. "That’s not the whole story."

The endocrinologist swiped, and new markers appeared. "Your heat cycle markers are currently inactive."

Chris stared, then tried to laugh it off. "Because I’m busy."

The cardiometabolic consultant’s expression didn’t change. "That is not how it works."

Chris’s brows rose. "Are you sure? The palace seems convinced I can insult my organs into obedience."

Dax’s gaze moved briefly toward him, warning, fond, and tired all at once.

Chris shut his mouth. Mostly.

The senior physician folded his hands. "Your heat has not returned," he said directly. "And there is no guarantee it will return on a predictable timeline after a high-risk pregnancy."

Chris went quiet, like he’d walked in expecting an obstacle and been handed a wall.

Dax leaned forward a fraction. "Recommendation."

"We recommend waiting," the physician said. "Until the heat returns, and your baseline stabilizes."

Chris’s head snapped up. "Wait is not a plan."

"It is the plan," Nadia said before anyone else could. "Because the last time you tried to pretend your body was fine, I was the one counting your hours asleep and making sure you still ate something that wasn’t pure spite."

Chris blinked at her, affronted. "I ate."

Nadia’s stare was flat. "You argued with a smoothie."

Dax’s mouth twitched, betraying him.

Chris looked betrayed. "You are all against me."

"We are all invested in you not dying," Nadia corrected.

The reproductive specialist spoke carefully, as if handling glass. "Even if you wanted to try immediately, conception planning without a stable cycle increases risk. And if the cycle does not return—"

Chris cut in, too calm, "Then it may not be possible for me to carry again."

Silence tightened.

The physician nodded once. "That is a possibility."

Chris stared at the table like it had personally offended him. Then he let out a short, humorless laugh. "So the advice is: hope."

"It’s not hope," Nadia said. "It’s time and monitoring. Which is the closest thing medicine has to control when nature decides to be rude."

Dax’s hand moved, covering Chris’s fingers where they’d tightened around the carrier strap.

Dax didn’t raise his voice. "What do we do while we wait?"

The senior physician answered. "We monitor monthly. Hormonal panels, cycle markers, sleep regulation, and stress load. There is no need to force the return before we wait at least a year."

Nadia added, already tapping notes into her tablet, "And you will rest. You will eat. You will stop treating your body like it’s a national service."

Chris blinked. "My body isn’t a service. The country is."

Dax’s gaze slid to him. "Christopher."

Chris sighed, theatrical and defeated. "Fine."

The senior physician concluded, "When your heat returns, if it returns, we revisit. With updated risk profiles and a clear plan."

Chris muttered, "Everyone keeps insulting hallways."

Nadia’s eyes didn’t even lift. "Because hallways are where you make bad decisions."

The meeting ended the way Sahan medical meetings always ended: clean, decisive, and controlled. Just competence delivered like a weapon.

Outside the conference suite, the corridor smelled like coffee instead of antiseptic. The palace had moved on: staff in earpieces, guards scanning quietly, and screens showing schedules and security updates.

Chris exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for an hour.

Dax paused, turned, and placed both hands on Chris’ shoulders, grounding him with the quiet confidence of a man who refused to let fear dominate the conversation.

"We plan," Dax said.

Chris huffed. "We’re planning to wait."

"We’re planning to live," Dax corrected. "And we’re planning to be ready if it happens. That is not nothing."

Chris stared up at him for a long beat, then sighed. "I hate responsible men."

Dax’s eyes warmed. "You married one."

"Tragic."

Dax bent and kissed his temple, sealing the moment like an agreement.

"Come home," he said.

And time, as always, moved.

Weeks passed.

Then months.

Nero grew heavier.

Nero learned to laugh.

Nero learned that Dax’s hair was apparently a handle.

Nero learned that ’no’ was a negotiable concept.

The physicians drew blood, read screens, adjusted protocols, and gave no promises.

Chris pretended he didn’t care.

Dax pretended he didn’t watch him too closely.

And then, one day, time didn’t just pass.

It arrived.

The family gathering in Saha wasn’t announced like a summit. It was announced like logistics: convoy coordination, security perimeters, arrival windows staggered on palace dashboards, and the internal calendar flagged PRIVATE FAMILY ARRIVAL.

Chris stood at the entrance in a fitted coat over comfortable clothes, Nero on his hip, because Chris refused to admit that carriers were suddenly more comfortable than pride.

Dax stood beside him in black and gold, earpiece still in, posture relaxed in the way only truly dangerous men ever managed, his hand at Chris’s back like it belonged there.

Then the first car rolled in, and the courtyard prepared for the only thing worse than politics.

Family.

Children.